If I could skip the pain that finals bring
And choose instead to write to my dear friends,
Then I would tell you tales to make you sing–
To laugh or cry when you have reached the end.
But sorrow must yet still my keys a while
As papers still must dominate my life.
Yet while I read, I’ll think of you and smile,
And happy look for days that are less rife
With footnotes, abstracts, style sheets and worse.
As you prepare your homey Yuletide joys,
Don’t be disheartened by my woeful verse.
It’s nothing but a bit of empty noise.
And by the fourteenth I’ll be all but done,
To jot a journal that’s (a bit) more fun.